


The Midwife

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Behind-the-scenes canon compliant, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: In the mid-1950s, a member of the New York City chapter of the Men of Letters is sent to the United Kingdom to assist with what appears to be another stack of cold case dead-ends, when he suddenly finds himself questioning one of his closest-held convictions.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Because I've been asked, who I pictured in my mind as the titular character & one other is at the bottom of the last chapter. The rest are up to your imagination. :)

There was once a small pocket of unmoved time in Kansas, about half a century's worth, and it came to an end simply, no magic required. A turn of a key in a lock, two sets of steps across a threshold, then it was over, just like that. Simple maneuvers were in contrast with the Men of Letters' old hat routine but the new occupants of their abandoned shelter under Lebanon favored such actions when they had the option.

These legacies were not alone in that position, though they may have found the premise hard to swallow as the years went by, as their knowledge grew. Their encounters with a few of the more interesting members of their inherited fraternity would have done little to convince them otherwise. _Seeing is believing_ , and what-have-you.

Proof. Tangibility. Something solid, something that could be held in the hand, studied, documented. Rumor meets research meets methodology. Hunter meets weapon meets monster. So, in that respect, more Men of Letters than not.

No one would have faulted the Winchester brothers for missing the typewriter at the very back of the lowest, farthest space, under the rotting table, inside the water-damaged and disintegrating box, completely covered by shadows and cobwebs in that brick-walled cellar of a storage room.

Perhaps some fault - they had lived there for years by the time the typewriter's keys began to move for the first time in decades - maybe that room should have long been discovered, its items sorted. The youngest would have found the books of value, slightly molded as they were. The eldest most assuredly would have found the vintage weaponry of interest, if not use.

 _Should_ they ever go hunting in their home, and _should_ that hunt take them to the dark corner, and the box, and the rusted device, a yellowed paper wrapped on the roll, filled with words in faded ink would await them, though they'd need to be timely: things of such nature do eventually tend to fall to pieces.  
.

* * *

 _ **Kendricks Academy, just outside London - 1956**_  
.

I've heard it said that if you question your own sanity, then the thought in-and-of itself means you're not. Insane, that is. I found that reasonable, though I suspected many a lunatic had to have felt it creeping on, so reason, yes; comfort, no.

Burt flicked a tiny paper ball across the huge library table to get my attention, and I tilted my head slightly in his direction, met mischievous eyes with my own, ones I suspected were dull and glazed-over and a step shy of insanity. A small snicker was my confirmation, and it was quickly shifted into a mild throat-clearing when our monotone host glanced over his shoulder in our direction. Undeterred, the long, thin stick in his hand went back to pointing - poking, really - at the projected data on the wall, the droning getting right back on track.

This was how I'd die.

 _He was such a promising young man_ , they'd write. _Twenty-four, taken long before his time, found still sitting up in the chair, his beloved research scattered around him. He is survived by an incredibly angry fiancée, bereft over the meticulously-yet-indecisively-planned wedding that shall never occur. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in his name to the Men of Letters, United Kingdom Headquarters, London. Please earmark as funding for booze-filled credenzas in all meeting rooms._

It wasn't just the London chapter - my home chapter in New York City was filled with fellows who could bore with the best of them, and though I loved my job, this assignment was working my nerves. I'd thought my breaks in the cold cases department - especially the last one - would send me into the more active areas of our duties. Active without _action_ , for the most part, but I would've happily taken it.

Instead they'd sent the Lily Sunder investigation on without me, then sent me across the pond, a stack of ice-colds awaiting me in the United Kingdom. And, of course, the not-so-brief briefings delivered in succession by brethren who grew increasingly brain-numbing. Thank heavens for Burt.

Per usual, he seemed to take everything in stride, easygoing to a fault. He was only around five years my senior, though his somewhat girthy physique and heavily balding scalp made him look older. And while he supported me in my desire to see what else our secret society had to offer, he seemed perfectly content languishing with the cold cases.

Even the fact that we'd been boarded at the school didn't seem to faze him, thin mattresses and bland food be damned. His pockets were always filled with candy, a bit grandfatherly, but I found myself grateful. I'd taken to munching whenever he did, and after almost three weeks, my waistband had started to protest - made sense why Burt was perpetually suspendered. Still, I took the offered piece of wax-wrapped taffy as we walked back to the dormitory.

"No more bubblegum?" I asked, pulling the sticky wad in two before I stuck it in my mouth.

"Nah," Burt replied, talking around an entire piece of taffy settled into his cheek, where it was causing a giant bulge. "Got in my mustache the other day."

"Stop blowing bubbles."

"Then what's the _point_ , Jacky?"

"Got me."

"Say, you heard anything from home?"

"Colleen changed her bouquet again."

"I meant Lily."

"No, lilies were three bouquets ago."

"The _Sunder_ case, you moron."

"Ah. No. Last time I asked, Peterson said it was now 'eyes only'." I capped off my response with rolled eyes, then went ahead and stuffed the other half of the taffy in my mouth. Burt knew better. I hated talking about it.

"Still makes me mad," he replied in a sympathetic tone.

" _Nothing_ makes you mad."

"Well, that did! Jack, you're the one that found the lead, confirmed the Canada sighting—"

I sighed. "Burt—"

"And for pity's sake, the Nephi—"

I hocked my taffy into a nearby bush before I stopped in my tracks, turned, gripped his forearm. " _Burt!_ " I hissed, glancing up and down the walkway.

Smatterings of students were still lingering and walking about, most headed into the common areas or their next class. And though we were outside, I still couldn't believe he was speaking so loudly, so casually. Saying _that_ word aloud at _all_.

Burt's brow creased slightly and those always-rosy cheeks pinked up a notch, but then he swallowed his taffy and grinned.

"Wanna skip that lukewarm, eighty-percent-dough-shepherd's pie in the canteen, head to a pub? I know one that serves actual hot meals, overfill the pints…." He trailed off in a slightly sing-song voice, wiggled his eyebrows so much they almost hit the rim of his cap.

I sighed again, then shrugged my shoulders.

"Why not?"

.

* * *

.

It wasn't simply that they'd taken what I'd come to consider my case away from me. It was the nagging feeling I had that despite the fact Sunder had caused no harm to civilians to our knowledge - well, excepting _herself_ \- the Men of Letters' continued interest in her was more than just loose-end tying. No reason but the pangs in my gut to think it was some kind of vendetta. Then they'd allowed more and more access to the files once my early, modest hypothesis showed promise, and I'd stumbled upon quite the reason during a fact-finding mission to the chapter house in Kansas.

 _House_. Ha. _Basement_ , more accurately, and the cold case guru there, Haggerty, was so excited to have company he would've let us redecorate the place in pastels if we'd asked nicely enough. Anything to keep me and Burt there longer, keep him occupied.

He was one of the more enthusiastic members, reminded me a lot of my father, truth be told. More into the metaphysical than I was, sure, but with a logical mindset. I understood why I'd been ordered to consult with him, given the nature of Sunder's appearance in the grainy photograph we'd obtained. The professor hadn't aged a day since the time she'd disappeared from what was left of her life, and our working theory was witchcraft.

Witchcraft didn't just mean magic in my business; it was one of several sub-classifications under the magical umbrella. And if you wanted the skinny on the workings of witches, you called on Haggerty. Even though he'd retired not long after we'd met, he never hesitated to get back in touch with any thoughts he had on the ideas I'd written to him about, the more far-fetched ones I'd want to bounce off of someone before writing them up for field work consideration. Besides Burt, he was the most open-minded member of our little club. At least, that I'd ever encountered.

Which was why I was glad it was just Haggerty in the room with me when I'd had to sit down due to my shock, right there on the concrete floor, deep in the bowels of that small-town basement, just to the front of the rickety file cabinet I'd been plundering.

"You okay, kid? What's that you got there?" he'd asked.

In reply, I'd simply held out the folder to him when he'd come over and stooped down beside me.

He'd let out a low whistle, went from a stoop to taking a knee as he flipped through the papers. "This must've come from your neck of the woods, you know," he'd said cautiously. "Not sure I know how an old northeast recruitment file would've ended up here."

I knew.

They'd chalk it up to a mistake if I'd asked, a clerical error fifty-some-odd years gone, that the documentation should've gone to storage with anything else not germane to the ongoing nature of our work. Besides, they would say, it doesn't matter to the case, didn't change the goal. Lily Sunder needed to answer for her meddling in otherworldly affairs, she needed to be monitored, needed to be questioned on her intentions.

But the truth was obvious - to me, to Burt, to Haggerty - that the real reason the file had been sent away from the New York house all those years ago was because they were embarrassed.

Sunder had refused no less than fourteen separate invitations to join the Men of Letters before the turn of the century. They'd been after her research talents since she was barely into adulthood, based on her early work in apocalyptic studies. They got more aggressive once her teaching career took off, and - judging by the verbiage in the copies of the letters they'd sent and the documentation of multiple recruitment trips to Maine - they were practically salivating over the thought of having a bonafide angel expert in their ranks.

.

* * *

.

"I still think it's why the Moles sent us here," Burt was saying, using our pet name for the ancient, die-instead-of-retire administrators in the Men of Letters.

He took large swig of beer to wash down the meat-and-two veg he'd just polished off. The rationing from the war had ended in the not-so-distant past, and it seemed all the cooks in the land - excepting the ones back at Kendricks, that is - were excited to get to do things up right again. Not that I had much of an appetite, but if we'd had to be banished, it had come at an ideal time, at least in that respect.

"We weren't _banished_."

Oh. I must've said that part aloud.

"Eat your food."

Burt was channeling his mother then - I knew because of the full British accent on all three words. His father was an American Mole, while his mother was the daughter of a very well-respected professor at Kendricks, not to mention all the uncles and cousins on both sides. Their family visited London for several months each year, so between that and hearing his mother every day, he was good for the occasional drift from American English, though he'd let loose around me from the jump.

There was some beef that kicked up off-and-on between the American and British leadership, and I never got invested, but a few of the older members in New York would dole out side-eyes and huffs at Burt's sporadic "pints" at "pubs", "mash" and "chips". It was more than the accent thing, though.

He kept close to the vest in general. I think because they weren’t shy about their resentment - some odd contempt for him for not being more of a go-getter, double legacy and all. Though about all that pedigree garbage, Burt couldn't have cared less.

They didn’t know how hard he worked behind the scenes, how much Burt cared about our mission. Not how I knew. And I also knew how much he cared for me. So I obeyed, eating a few bites of some of the best fish I'd probably ever had, and he went on.

"I'm telling you, them pulling us out here right after Sunder? It's not a coincidence. Tell me you're not thinking the same thing."

I set down my fork, wiped my mouth, then looked at him as seriously as I could manage. "If I think too much about it, I'm going to get mad. Besides, she's not out here, and they know it. She may've been, but it's not as if there's any way to determine it - she's been running since Zeppelins were all the rage. I don't know what it is, but it's _not_ Sunder."

Burt pulled his small, leather-bound notebook from his inside pocket and untied the strings, ready to make his case. I started stuffing carrots I didn't want into my mouth so I wouldn't slip from my current irritation at his pressing into that anger I'd just warned him about. My best friend was an absolute mule.

"Wales: Llandudno - old Liddell summer home location - _nothing_. Cairnholm - what was left of the Peregrine house - _mild_ trace. You know how many kilometers we covered in Wales, total?"

"No idea, but I bet you—"

"Nine-hundred eighty-seven-point-eight, Jacko. You know how many _miles_ that is?"

"Burt, are you going to be arriving at a point anytime in the near—"

"Then here," he continued, flipping a page. "Bloomsbury - former home of the Darlings - _mild_ trace. All those random train depots - _all_ the tunnels, ALL of them, Jack—"

"I was there," I said, downing the last quarter of my pint quicker than I should've, mentally crossing my fingers that his end point would have an actual theory behind it this time.

"—and we only confirmed potential - just _potential_ \- trace on _one_."

"You do recall when they ponied up about already knowing all this? I wanted to punch that guy."

"The short fella, the white-haired gentleman, who likely would've died on the spot if you _had_ done?"

"Yup, that's the one," I shot back casually, then glanced around. I caught our waitress' eye and held up my empty mug with what I hoped was a somewhat genuine smile. Burt was still going.

"All-in-all, not a definitive sign of an active hidey-hole to be found."

"I hate when you call them that."

"Window, door, aperture, passage, thinning, portal - still a hole. I stand by it."

"Fine."

"Kirke estate - every single room - not even a hint of _anything_."

"I'm going to rescind your best man status if you keep this up."

"Colleen can't stand me, she'd be thrilled. Hell, Jack, make it her wedding present for all I care."

I frowned. "Jeez, Burt. What is _with_ you?"

Then he frowned. "I was actually listening to their briefings. Were you?"

"Barely," I replied honestly. "They're sending us on follow-up field trips that first year initiates should be handling, and I actually _miss_ our office and the city and my family and even that stupid tiny room in that overcrowded chapter house."

"And your fiancée."

I gave him a _look_. "I'm tired of chasing down what have always been children's stories with bits of truth in them somewhere. Bedtime tales that have been around long enough - _plenty_ long enough - that if there were anything important to them, the Moles would've sussed it out when _they_ were initiates."

Thankfully the waitress brought over our next round then, and I set into mine like a man just crawling in from the Sahara.

Burt huffed. "Tomorrow's the first time we're going somewhere that's not a rehash. You didn't notice anything new and different about the briefing today?"

"That it's the closest I've gotten to empathizing with the undead."

He flipped his notebook around to face me and planted a finger above several sets of numbers. "Exact latitudes and longitudes, exact area of square kilometers to cover." He flipped another page. "And here's the inns we'll be staying in. We're gonna be gone for a few weeks, and I know it's not just a hop-skip from here, but this shouldn't take more than four or five days, give-or-take."

I set my mug down slowly, scanning over the notes quickly. He was right. I raised my eyes to his.

He grinned when he saw he finally had my interest. "I think they might've been testing us with all this other stuff, make sure we were accurate on the traces we'd found, see how thorough we were in following up with any living witnesses, how detailed we were in reports. I think _this_ trip is why we're here. Because if I wanted to whip up a nice little spread, keep people away from my hidey-hole? _This_ is exactly the type of place I'd put it."

I stared at him for a few moments, my normally whirring, ever-processing mind at a complete standstill.

Now he leaned in closer. "And I think I have an idea about how it connects to the Sunder case - to your theory."

Burt wisely didn't say the word - though the volume of the pub's patrons would've likely drowned it out anyway - and instead just kept studying my face.

"Spit it out," he finally ordered.

I inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, glancing down at the scribbled locales, then back up, obeying Burt once more.

"What in damnation do they think is out on the moors?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. -Nash


	2. Chapter 2

She was already sipping and though the sugar cubes in my teacup had long dissolved, I was still watching the dark orange liquid swirl around my spoon. The soft clink of her cup coming to rest on its saucer prompted me to stop. I cleared my throat to try and clear my head, setting the spoon aside, then raising my eyes.

"Try it. Make sure you like it. We'll whip up a different kind if not."

"I'm sure it will be fine."

I lifted my cup and drank to prove it to her, forced a small smile as I swallowed. I was a coffee person. I was not going to let my hostess know.

"I thought I'd begin with imparting information. You and your colleague have gotten many things…"

"Wrong?"

"Twisted."

"Ah."

"The professor is not elusive due to assistance by a coven. Not by what I'd call magic."

"What _would_ you call it?"

She rotated the teacup slowly between her hands, eyes not leaving mine as she replied.

"I would call it ingenuity."

"And her daughter?"

"The girl is long dead. The completely ordinary girl. Your second incorrect assumption."

"But Sunder _had_ been with angels, we—"

"I cannot speak to the professor's personal life. I can only say she was in the company of a Seraphim before she left."

"But how can you be certain that they weren't…. weren't _involved_ for longer, that perhaps—"

The borderline glare cut me off well before the cold tone.

"This is your concern - knowing if they were _involved_?"

She uttered a short _tsk_ , gave me a slow shake of the head as she once more lifted her teacup, but she paused to say one last thing before drinking.

"Humans find such _fascinating_ ways to waste their time."

* * *

 

EARLIER THAT DAY 

There were only two stops for our assignment. We came away from Dartmoor with nothing but ruined suit pants and shoes. Burt was annoyingly optimistic the entire time, while I was beginning to feel something akin to despair.

"Chin up!"

"Shut up."

Our conversations had definitely devolved.

The present locale was more of a straight shot back to London, so that was something positive, likely getting us back expediently once we were done. However, the area of our forthcoming search was larger than that at Dartmoor. _Much_ larger.

A handful of local teenagers there were easily paid off - and they sold themselves short, should've charged a higher fee - to get us going in the right direction. They'd been monkeying around out in the moors since they were children, to their parents' chagrin, I'm sure.

Here, in Sedgemoor, it was another story - we weren't going to be getting much assistance in terms of a guide. The locals were beyond wary to speak with us, and I was thankful more than ever for Burt's ability to slip into a full accent and conversational slang because I didn't know how much more of a wild goose chase through peaty sludge I could stand. Had I been alone, their standoffishness would've resulted in a reaction from me that could've cost me my career. _Quagmire_ , while apt, didn't quite cover it.

A few willing - slightly drunken - souls at the inn's pub gave us options for ideal places to kick off our trek. We were smarter now, replacing our typical garb with sensible slacks and boots, though Burt had adopted a more safari look than my own, complete with khaki Bermuda shorts and a hat that would've made Hemingway proud. The bright white knee socks made me cringe.

I'd taken on the Sherpa role and my own personal, upright yak was bearing the burden of a large backpack filled with our testing gear and water and emergency supplies. It was good for him, he needed the physical exercise. As for mental exercise, I dearly wished for a scaling-back; he'd already started in on a new notebook back in Dartmoor, jotting almost constantly now, page after page filled with thoughts I didn't have the heart to discourage.

My partner-in-chaos had somehow convinced himself Nephilim were hiding in the moors.

We'd gotten off the train and to the inn later than I'd have liked the night prior, and despite downing four pints of stout brew while Burt worked his charms, I'd tossed and turned the entirety of the few hours we'd had to rest. Burt talked almost the entire time on the train, talked the ears off the people in the pub, talked in his sleep. And he showed no signs of stopping.

"Think about it, Jacky - we don't know how angels communicate, or if they can recognize each other on sight, at least, down here," Burt was saying as we slogged along, mid-afternoon now, having set out at just past the crack of dawn.

I kept quiet. _Down here_. As if heavenly residents were above us.

"Can they possess _any_ ol' body, like demons? Do they monitor the ones on earth somehow, with some sort of—"

"Concentrate," I interrupted him, extending a hand out to help get him over one of the less death-defying portions of a rhyne.

Once he was across and distracted with catching his breath, I pulled out the compass to check how we were faring.

"Not much further," I told him. "Ready?"

"Because what I keep going back to, is - are they keeping track of Nephilim? Are they even aware of exactly how many there _are_?" Burt went on, not acknowledging me.

I sighed as I put the compass back in my pocket, then kept walking, my pace keeping me several yards in front of him.

"You'd think so, you'd think they'd want to keep those powers under control. Wouldn't you? Jack? Wouldn't you think?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. The headache coming on was long overdue. I was desperately trying to keep my tone in check.

"You mean God? That's what you mean, specifically - God himself or angels acting upon his orders, right?"

"Right."

"Then Burt, if I were God or a mighty archangel, and my minions were procreating against my wishes, no - I would _not_ be keeping some sort of school attendance or sporting roster. I would snap my fingers and blow the disobedient to bits, but not before I did the same with their offspring."

I was scanning the moderate upwards slope we were coming upon that was absolutely blanketed in thick fog, wondering how our small flashlights were supposed to help us navigate through it, when I noticed the absence of sucking and sloshing behind me. I stopped and turned. Burt was standing stock still - and sinking slightly - staring at me with a dropped jaw. Then he made the sign of the cross, who could guess why, causing me to roll my eyes and huff.

"They would be God's children as much as the angels," Burt said softly.

Now _my_ jaw dropped.

"Did we read the same Old Testament growing up? I know you're a good Catholic boy and I was raised as Protestant as it gets, but I'm pretty sure the both of us, and a slew of other faiths, are square with the idea that God is vengeful—"

" _Can_ be vengeful—"

"—no, he IS vengeful, and he doesn't tolerate disobedience. Not from _any_ of us, angels included, or are you _also_ forgetting the Morning Star's boot in the ass?"

We stared at each other for more than a few heavy moments, the only sound a fierce, whipping spurt of wind.

"They would be considered abominations," I finally said. "Pick a sacred text. Hell, it's even what the Apocrypha says. It's what _our_ experts say. Why are you acting like it's the first time you… _Damn it_ , Burt!"

"Those translations are debated!"

"You know, you're right - maybe they _are_ just giants. Hey, think the Moles consider this drowned mess a leftover from the mother of all floods? We'll play archaeologists, carry back some oak-sized bones on the plane? No, wait - maybe we should be looking for a _beanstalk!_ "

Burt frowned. "What if they're just fallen? What if they just need… _deserve_ … some grace?"

"Do you not understand the concept of 'abomination'?"

"That's not what Sunder concluded."

"And what the hell do _you_ know about Sunder? What do _I_ really know about Sunder? She destroyed most of her work when she ran off—"

" _Now_ who's throwing out wild theories?"

"It's not wild, it was in the original case reports—"

"So now we're trusting the Moles when they're saying nothing beyond what we saw was recovered, Jack? The very ones that were trying to force her into joining up? Threatening her daughter if she didn't?"

I narrowed my eyes.

"They're real pieces of work, you know I'd be the first to say it. But there was _nothing_ in the things we've seen that showed they were anything other than a bunch of chafed asses after a woman - who, by the way, was ten times smarter than their _best_ lore gurus - had the gall to reject their precious invitation."

Minutes passed as Burt seemed to be involved in an internal debate with himself regarding what he was about to say in response.

"Have something to share?" I snapped.

"I know they did it because I asked Father… and two of Mother's older brothers."

I was floored. That Burt had asked, and that they had apparently given him answers, was a hefty breach of our protocols. Mixing family and Men of Letters business - even in legacies, even regarding business long gone stale - was a serious violation. For more than just him.

Burt could have been banned, any other active members of his family banned, and any living retirees would face a lengthy investigation, the punishment for any guilt unearthed, well… I chose not to think on it long. Instead I turned away and kept trudging towards the slope.

"They weren't directly involved," Burt said, and I heard him trying to pick up his pace to catch up with me. "But they saw things, heard others talking. And I believe them."

"You believe _rumors_."

He was undeterred. And he spilled his guts, every drop of what his family had relayed. How the Moles assigned to recruit Sunder took advantage of the fact that she'd been widowed. How they wanted to make her believe they could have her daughter taken away. That the Men of Letters were influential enough to make authorities think she was more than just an academic, that her recent work showed she was insane, unfit to care for a child.

"So how is that anything other than a threat?"

I stopped and turned again, almost colliding with Burt.

"Are you – are you _actually_ trying to say you think the Moles tried to make her run? Just so they could hunt her, force her to be a member? Is _that_ what you're driving at?"

A bit of a glare was coming to his eyes, but I didn't stop.

"Are you trying to get your whole family banned? Get _me_ banned by telling me all this? You've put me in a position of deciding whether or not to report you!"

Burt was close to fuming, I could tell by the veins coming out in his neck and the new beads of sweat creeping from under his hat that were not from exertion.

"No, I don't think they knew she'd run!"

"Then _what?!_ "

"I think they figured out what we did, that she was getting information from angels - at least _an_ angel, who knows if there were more, and for how long. Something must've gone wrong, and badly wrong, for her to run. And, yeah, she could've contacted the Moles. Sunder was nothing if not logical, she knew they wanted her, and she'd know we'd be her best hope if she got on the wrong side of the heavenly host."

Another fit of harsh wind, and it seemed to drag the line of fog closer.

" _'We'?!_ She's been out there playing with fire all this time, and to what end, we don't know, which is the point. Yeah, _that_ is what we should be working on, not whatever this garbage goose chase is, but we're not," I said, my jaw so tight my words were slipping out through clenched teeth. " _This_ is our mission. We're _off_ the Sunder case, Burt! I've accepted it! Now get it through your thick skull!"

"Y-you…. _you've_ accepted it?" Burt scoffed. "Tell me another one, Jacky. And while you're at it, make me believe you don't want to find her so we can help her."

So there it was. Burt's passion had nothing to do with finding her to assess the danger, and everything to do with keeping her - and if we were right, possibly her Nephilim daughter - safe. I was very close to punching him right in that chubby mug of his.

"Stop acting like you know Sunder! Stop acting like we can get into her mind. We can't - she's gone completely 'round the bend, whatever she's doing, and it's gonna get her killed. She's not going to be a problem for long - _that_ is my theory. Case closed."

Burt and I stared at each other for who knows how long before he took a deep breath and tried again.

"I don't claim to be in her head. But she's a mother—"

"Mother to a—"

"—and you don't have any children, Jack. You can't understand. We're God's children, sure, but the angels were his _first_ , and their creation was _purposeful_ , they were _designed_ , they were _planned_ , and you can't plan to create a life and not have love be part of it."

My ire crumbled right along with his face. I wanted to kick myself. Burt's wife had suffered so many miscarriages, I'd truthfully lost count. They'd finally gotten past a worrying point with her current pregnancy and it had only added to his geniality. Not presently, though, as I'd just single-handedly managed to crack his sweet spirit into pieces.

"Burt, I didn't mean to—"

And suddenly his expression went back to fierce determination.

"What did you do that made them take the Sunder case away?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. -Nash


	3. Chapter 3

I'd been wrong before.

No, _this_ was how I'd die, walled in by heavy clouds that had lazily seeped down into the fog. They mixed with it seamlessly, swirling into tiny tornadoes. It was almost as if our surroundings wanted to make damn well sure we couldn't find our way out.

 _He'd probably held promise at some point_ , they'd write. _Perhaps a tragedy, hard to say, being taken away at so young an age, lost out on the moors, before the promise might've revealed itself. He leaves behind a fiancée who will most assuredly move on quickly, about a month from now, give-or-take, so as not to forfeit all the money her father has invested in the planned nuptials, please place your bets now. In lieu of flowers, move on with your lives as there is nowhere to send them, seeing as how the Men of Letters will deny he even existed._

I'm sure Burt was wishing I didn't exist. _I_ had brought us out here, with my idiotic decision. I didn't want him to be lost with me, though if there _could_ be a silver lining to the thick clouds, it would be that his family would envelop the Moles, the former members and civilians alike, bringing such pressure to bear that I wouldn't envy them. They'd not let Burt be lost for long, that was fact, no question in my mind.

Burt had never asked many questions of me.

I knew far more about him, his family, his many likes, his few dislikes, his past, his present. I'd always wondered if he thought I'd left him hanging with my shrugs and short replies about anything more personal than what Colleen was upset about in a given week, and I suppose now I had my answer. He was done waiting on me to decide what he should know.

"What did you _say to them_?" he repeated.

I blinked in surprise at the stern expression and no-nonsense voice.

"What?" I blurted.

" _What!?_ About the _case!_ Was it about her daughter?" he demanded. "Did you tell them what we'd been thinking? I _know_ you didn't put it in writing, or else we'd have been sent to some back room in the furthest chapter they could find."

I stayed quiet.

"I _know_ they knew about the colluding with witches theory because I helped you type up the damn reports - you kept misspelling everything, wasted a whole ribbon, you were so excited, even though we weren't really convinced! All because you thought it was something that was _finally_ going to get them to notice you. And like a dummy, I went along."

I crossed my arms. All I could manage to do was look into the fog. Done with its twisting, it was folding in on itself, edging closer at what seemed like a borderline alarming rate, getting denser with every inch. And I found I didn't care. I wished it would leave Burt alone and swallow me up.

"The Men of Letters have had vast resources in place long before anyone ever knew they existed," Burt continued. "They've _always_ known about angels."

"Your family tell you that, too?" I asked bitterly.

"Yeah, they did!" he shot back. "And it doesn't take a genius to put it together - when the lore goes from nothing to left to find, to a random professor in Maine publishing revolutionary theological breakthroughs, translating Enochian left-and-right. Of _course_ she had a heavenly source. No _wonder_ the witch thing didn't wash with them!"

"You can't be sure that—"

" _Then_ you started talking like we knew for a fact an angel had fathered her daughter, and… and… Jack, I just don't know you anymore! Have I _ever?_ "

I shifted from foot to foot. We'd agreed there was no way she'd have murdered her own child, even if her daughter was Nephilim. Sunder wasn't some blind, naïve pew-warmer. We'd agreed she wouldn't have bought into all the abomination talk. So we didn't put it in the report, the part about how her daughter may still be alive.

Because we'd figured what the Moles would assume. Because we could imagine what they might do. But mostly because he and I, together, we'd _agreed_.

Then he'd gotten distracted with his wife, with the baby, so I'd talked myself into believing that Sunder had given birth to a Nephilim. Then killed her… killed _it_. And _then_ I'd talked myself into believing she hadn't - that she was _using_ the chi… using it. For power.

But I _had_ to be convincing when I brought it to some of the elder brothers, didn't I? It was a mental marvel, really. Never been much good at believing before.

"Say it," I told him, finally looking him right in the eye.

And Burt called me on it - everything I'd just turned over in my mind.

"Why would I have done that?" I asked him, my voice not sounding right in my ears. They were ringing. I waved mist away from my face, wiped the moisture it brought from my already-sweaty brow, as if it'd do any good.

"So the Moles would be scared into paranoia. So they'd promote you, put you to work finding her, get you out of our dingy office. But it didn't work, so here we are," he answered softly, now speaking to me more kindly than I deserved. "And that's why you're so _angry_ \- I can _see_ it in you, underneath, all the time. Am I wrong?"

I was trying to fight back nausea.

"Jack?"

"No," I whispered, a strong burst of wind nearly drowning it out.

_"Holy Mary, Mother of God!"_

I frowned at the out-of-character exclamation from Burt, not just the words, but because it seemed a bit over-reactive given he likely knew what I'd reply before he'd asked. But his sudden pallor told me I was no longer his focus. He was looking just over my shoulder, wide-eyed.

There, probably twenty feet away, right at the edge of the slope, was a circular break in the thick grey mass. In it stood a small group of various-sized people. And in the center was a dark-haired woman in a plum-colored dress, the tallest of the collective. She had a touch of a closed-lipped smile on her face, and her relaxed posture was completely at odds with what I would've asserted was quite the tense situation.

"We are interrupting."

The woman's voice had a scant bit of an accent that I couldn't place, and her tone indicated a statement of fact, not one of apology.

The seven figures around her - and based on the size of their hands and their feet, I was beginning to think they were all children - wore long, hooded capes. They were ground-grazing, stick-straight, and black as coal. The hoods were of such a cut and depth that any chance for a glimpse of faces was rendered null. Despite our dank setting, where they were gathered _some_ sunlight was slicing through the haze, but I suspected it wouldn't have mattered if we stood next to the Chrysler Building - the purpose was to hide, and hidden they were.

We remained still and silent for what seemed like an eternity, not even the wind turning up to give us reprieve.

Burt spoke first, but just to me, out of the corner of his mouth.

"There's opportunity here for a Snow White joke that I'm not calling up."

"Disappointing," I muttered, neither of us moving, not looking at each other, not reaching inside our jackets for our pistols.

Strange thing was, it wasn't because we _couldn't_ have done so. The appearing-out-of-nowhere had me convinced we were dealing with beings of an otherworldly nature, to say the least, and I found it odd that we hadn't been handicapped in some fashion, but I was thankful. So when Burt moved his hand inside his jacket, I felt myself stiffen.

Not a flinch from the woman or the children, however, so my anxiety eased. A little. Mildly.

Burt was trembling, but I could tell by the look on his face that it wasn't out of fear. It was pure excitement. We all watched as he fumbled with the strings on his notebook, nearly dropped his pencil, then tried to get the now damp, misted pages to separate.

" _Really?_ " I hissed.

"Burt?"

He slowly looked up at the woman, and I followed suit.

"You know… you know my name, ma'am?" he replied.

"I do. We all do. Yours and your friend's… Jack, yes?"

I nodded.

"H-how do—"

"You and Jack here are _incredibly_ loud."

I blushed like a boy who'd been scolded by his teacher.

Burt began to stammer, but I cut in, my initial shock now worn off. Moderately worn off. _Fine_ , I told my nagging brain. _Barely_ worn off.

"We're leaving, ma'am. Apologies for the disturbance."

She turned her head ever-so-slightly to me, arching an eyebrow, though the grin remained.

"But you haven't hardly looked around, brought out your fancy tools and taken measurements, Jack. Nor have you found your beanstalk. What ever will your employers say?"

The tiniest amount of tittering could be heard amongst her group, followed by a few hand-hidden whispers between several of them. Burt had let the backpack slip from his shoulders to the ground, and was scribbling furiously, not a sign of nervousness about his person. And for whatever reason, I opened my big mouth.

"Nice bog you have here."

"We think so," she replied, not missing a beat, though her voice lacked the jovial lilt one would've thought with such a come-back, and she was still staring me down.

"Ma'am?"

Her eyes didn't leave mine as she answered.

"Yes, Burt?"

"I, ah… I was wondering… well, you know my name, so I… what should I call you?"

Again she willingly answered, and I tore my eyes from hers, looked over to what Burt was writing. Underneath hastily scrawled descriptions of the group, he jotted down what he'd heard her say.

"Miss Finn, now is that F-I-N-N?"

More tittering, and if my ears didn't deceive me, a giggle or two, which made me suspect Burt had gotten it all wrong, and that made me smile - briefly - despite our circumstance.

"No," she replied, and left it at that. When I looked back up, her grin had widened slightly and the intensity was gone from her eyes, but her gaze hadn't left my face.

"Oh," Burt said, then let out what I knew to be a forced chuckle, the one he used when he was trying to cover embarrassment.

But any that he might've felt flew away when the woman gently touched the shoulders of the two children standing directly in front of her, prompting them to move aside, and walked towards us. She wore heeled boots under her heavy skirt, but they didn't sink into the marshy soil one iota. She stopped in front of me, hands clasped casually in front of her, though she now looked at Burt.

"Fen, as in your current locale," she told him. "No 'Miss'. Only Fen."

Burt crossed out what he'd written, then corrected it. He looked up to her with a smile, put his pencil behind his ear, and stuck out his hand. _You dolt_ , I thought - we had no idea what we were dealing with. Little wonder he'd hardly been put in the field.

"Burton Rendell Rawlings, pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

The woman - Fen - merely reciprocated, giving him a firm handshake with a gloved hand. Upon the release, she extended it to me.

Burt hadn't dissolved or imploded, so I figured I may as well jump off the bridge with him.

"Just Jack," I told her as we shook.

"Well, then, Burton Rendell Rawlings and Just Jack - would you care for some tea?"

Burt put away his notebook and pencil, nodding vehemently, beaming like a kid on Christmas morning. He retrieved the discarded backpack and slipped it on. While he did, Fen removed a glove, then motioned behind her and one of the smaller children came over.

As the hood was pulled back, I saw its wearer was a young girl, couldn’t have been more than ten, yet she walked with such purpose, with such confident posture, and if I were a poetic man I’d have said she had an old soul behind her wide-set, ridiculously large eyes.

"Ever, would you be so kind as to escort Mr. Rawlings while I escort Jack?" asked Fen.

The girl nodded, and slipped a hand in one of Burt's immediately.

He smiled at her, saying, "Hi - Ever, is it? That's a… a _unique_ name."

There was no reply, and Burt didn't follow-up, mainly because he'd immediately started to sway, his knees almost giving out.

"Oh my, sorry about that, I guess I got a… got a little too excited to… to meet you, dear."

I frowned, but Fen had clutched one of my hands - tightly - and the girl quickly reached over and snatched the other.

And now, here I was, sitting in a large kitchen drinking tea I didn't want, in a large castle-like house on what appeared to be an equally-large, plush estate. That is, if my stolen glances through windows as we'd walked into a massive foyer and dining area were anywhere near accurate. I was certain I'd seen at least a baker's dozen of children playing outside. There were handfuls more in a parlor we'd passed, and I was trying to construct a roster in my head of estimated ages.

Burt had gotten considerably faint around the time we'd walked past a staircase, and two teen-aged boys seemed to come from nowhere, meeting us in a hallway, each taking one of his arms. They guided him - accompanied by myself, Fen, and the girl called Ever - to a bedroom, made sure he was settled, then left after a nod to me and Fen. No one made a move to keep me away or hinder my line of sight - no evident worry on their parts for anything I might witness.

Ever had removed her cloak and sat herself in a chair across from the bed, pulling a small book from her dress pocket, then went to reading without a word. Burt was snuggled down and snoring in no time, dead to the world. Whatever… _wherever_ … this world _was_. It didn't feel as abnormal as I thought it should have, something it had in common with my tea time companion.

"Jack, I don't believe what I've said surprises you. I don't believe you truly thought witchcraft was the reason your quarry's been able to repeatedly go to ground. And I also don't believe you _ever_ thought the girl was alive. Or that she was Nephilim."

I sighed, shifting in my chair, and I pushed the still-full teacup and saucer away. I was getting irritated. And it irritated me further that Fen noticed but didn't seem to care.

"You already heard Burt and I, right? So what's your point? Why bother with my confirming it?"

"Because sometimes the things we keep inside should be said aloud - often, it is the only way to truly hear them."

I added _pseudo-platitudes_ to my mental list of irritations as she went on.

"And because you _still_ seem to want to convince yourself you have all the answers, and all you need is the proof. That's not how the truth works, hunting only for the results that will fit your theories."

"So _what_? I was wrong about the Sunder case, okay? I messed up, and I can't fix it. What else do you want from me?"

"I want you to accept you're wrong about more than just that - and formulate a new theory. Now that you have some truths under your belt."

I glared.

"I don't know _anything_. I don't even know where we are, who you and those kids are… _what_ you and those kids are… if Burt and I are going to be allowed to leave here…"

Fen leaned back in her chair, the very picture of calm.

"You and Burt may leave any time you wish. Although…."

She trailed off, waited a beat. To pique my interest. Even _bait_ me, I suppose.

It worked.

"Yes?"

She shrugged.

"Thought you'd be more… _curious_."

I let out a huff, leaned back in _my_ chair, closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. She was infuriating. Yet I was still void of any instinctual fear. And my thoughts suddenly drifted to Colleen.

Colleen was just beautiful, no two ways about it. One of those Hollywood-grade, glossy magazine beauties. Even if she wasn't a man's "type" - whatever _that_ means - I'd heard more than enough times how stunning, how _appealing_ she was to others.

Her family was borderline Upper East Side, she'd had a modest debut ball, and she had decently frequent interaction with the who's-who socialite crowd of New York's so-and-so's. She was classy and witty and sparkled up any room. But she was no Deb. _Debutante_ , that is.

We'd been together off-and-on since senior year in high school, and though she was titillated at my going to work for a covert section of the government - standard cover, per the Moles - we'd reached a stalemate around a year ago. She felt like an old maid and said we'd need to break up or get married.

So we got engaged. Her parents set a date, the never-ending bridal showers had garnered hefty turn-outs, and then a surprising amount of Debs had R.S.V.P.'d. A supposed Whitney cousin I'd never met had agreed to be maid of honor just before I'd left for Europe, ousting my bride-to-be's only sister.

All said, Colleen hadn't spoken of anything but the wedding for nigh on three months straight. Her ring'd been re-sized and ready for pick up at the jewelers since May. Which I should probably attend to, once we got back. I'd have to get in Burt's habit, start making notes.

I would have never classified Fen's appearance as _stunning_ or _Hollywood_ , nothing of the sort. What Fen did was stop me in my tracks and cause my breath to hitch, because she was _striking_. I found her features quite lovely, to be sure - but it was hard to pin down _what_ exactly was causing that punch in my gut. Just her proximity, her presence, the way she studied me, how it made my body run over with chills. The _good_ kind.

Her eyes weren't large to begin with and when she'd narrow them in my direction, just a promise of a full-on glare, only a sliver left below the lids to reflect any light, on God I'd swear the whites of her eyes would be all that remained and a flash would run across them, quick as lightning. And then it would vanish. Her eyes would go back to normal, she would visibly relax… yet I somehow _couldn't_ , even when I'd force myself to look away, telling myself I was doing something wrong.

I didn't know _what_ , exactly, was wrong, what it was I _should_ be doing… no. No, that wasn't true at all, I _did_ know - I should collect Burt. I should make her prove she wasn't bluffing, force her hand, so we could leave this place, then forget we'd seen a thing.

"You're distracted."

"That I am."

"Tell me what can I do for you."

My mouth opened and closed a few times involuntarily, a series of _ums_ and _ahs_ making their way out. No one, and I mean _no one_ , had ever said those words to me, not even Burt. Never just an open-ended opportunity to name what I needed.

But if anyone ever had, well… there was that pesky lack-of-belief of mine popping up again. I likely wouldn't have trusted the sincerity of the offer. I had my reasons. Why I found myself believing Fen, I could not say.

She rescued me from my gaping.

"Perhaps I should start with where you are. This is our home, mine and my charges."

"Your charges," I repeated slowly.

"It has been for quite some time. Many centuries now."

"Centuries," I mumbled, having apparently turned into a man-sized parrot.

"Which I'm pleased to explain, though the answers may be somewhat… time-consuming for me to relate, I'm afraid. This is new for me."

 _Interesting_.

"As to _what_ we are, as you put it - I am human, just as mortal, just as powerless as yourself and your friend. And my charges are the offspring of humans and angels - your sought-after Nephilim."

A breeze could have knocked me from the chair.

"So if you'd consider extending your visit—"

" _Yes!_ " I practically shouted, and she genuinely appeared to be startled. I'd startled _myself_. It was the fastest I'd ever agreed to anything in my entire life.

"On one condition," she said, then polished off the rest of her tea.

"Anything," I replied, and meant it.

One of her unnerving, cut-right-through-you gazes lit on my face as she answered.

"You're going to tell me a story. How you came to feel such contempt for the heavenly host. And I'll know if you lie to me, Jack. Then our deal will be off. You and Burt will be taken safely to town, right to your rooms at the inn, with no memory of this place. Or any of us."

I confess I barely heard her, too excited for my irritation at her ability to read me to return, responding immediately.

“Whatever you want, sure.”

My mind was back to its normal routine, filling with ideas and plans faster than I could catalogue them. This was it. I'd be able to write my own ticket, straight to the upper rungs, top-tier agent status. I was more determined than ever to make it happen. Hell, I was _going_ to make it happen.

Assuming Fen and her Nephilim didn't have other plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. -Nash


	4. Chapter 4

"He's still resting. I'm going right back."

I turned at the sound of the voice, instantly feeling my annoyance return at the interruption. I'd just agreed to - to what, a tour? The chance to read some of the books I'd noted lining the shelves in the wall of recessed cases in the lounge? I wasn't certain, but whatever it was, it was apparently going to have to wait, judging by Fen's wide smile and the sparkling eyes that appeared as soon as they'd fixed on her charge.

"You don't have to babysit him," Fen informed her, a gentle admonishment. "He's perfectly fine."

Fen received no acknowledgment but I was getting the once-over of a lifetime.

"Hiya, kid," I tried. "Ever, right?"

Ever gave me a curt nod, then walked to the large stove, snapping her fingers and bringing up a fairly strong flame from one burner and a smaller one under the kettle Fen had used to make our tea. It elicited a bit of a gulp from me. And a not-so-subtle double-take.

If she noticed, or _cared_ , I couldn't tell. She busied herself pulling out what looked like an absolutely ancient percolator, filling it with water, then out of a cabinet came a coffee grinder. A handful of dark beans from a small bag were added and she pulverized them quickly, with a surprising amount of grit for those lanky arms. She tossed them in, settled the percolator onto the burner, then moved on to taking the kettle from the stove. Coming to the table, she removed the lid from the teapot and brought lukewarm back to piping-hot.

Fen didn't make another attempt to engage, so I followed her lead, keeping quiet. She watched the girl with equal parts amusement and something I interpreted as a form of concern, not speaking until Ever was freshening up her tea.

"We'll come look in on him."

Ever glanced up, then back down, finished her pouring. The pot was returned to its trivet with a sharp _tink_. She'd ignored my cup completely.

"If you like," she replied brusquely.

Approaching the percolator again, she made a huffing sound, and as she curved a hand around it near the base, I found myself involuntarily rising from my chair, as if I were going to rush over to stop her, pull her away, maybe even yell at her for being so stupid - but it was _my_ hand which was grabbed, by Fen. I glanced at her and received a subtle head shake in return. So I slowly lowered myself, my heart rebounding beat by beat from the gallop it had taken on.

Damn this kid for making me so jumpy.

But my heart rate sped up again when Ever took two mugs from another cabinet, filling each with the coffee, and walked back over, keeping one in her hand and setting the other in front of me.

"Black, yes?"

"How do you know that?" I blurted, followed by _another_ involuntary reaction - I recoiled from both her and the mug, shifting to the far side of the chair.

Ever tilted her head as if she were curious as to why I'd even ask. "Fen's already told you - you're _very_ loud." And that was seemingly that - she turned on her heel, headed to the door.

"Ever."

She paused, but hesitated before looking over her shoulder at Fen, who’d said her name with a touch of sternness, and pointedly glanced at the stove.  

A snap of Ever’s fingers, and the flames receded. Then Fen received a raised eyebrow, sending the clear message of -  _Will that be all?_

"Not planning on straightening up?" asked Fen.

"It's Ozzy's turn on kitchen duty. He left peanut butter smeared on the second floor veranda's rails when it was my turn there. I was not pleased."

"Understood."

Ever took her leave.

I stared down at the mug in front of me. It smelled wonderful, so I had a taste. It _was_ wonderful.

"A training excursion to Kenya," Fen told me.

I sipped a little more, wanting to ask about what _training excursion_ meant, exactly, but I opted to hold back. "Ozzy? You sure have some names around here."

Fen laughed, and it made me smile. "They all choose their own, some mythical, though most seem to opt for literary or historical. Ozzy's is short for Ozymandius. One of my more colorful charges."

"That's… interesting. So why'd she choose 'Ever'?"

"It wasn't always, she's changed it several times, though this one has lasted the longest. Came about from a deep-seated love of Mr. Poe. I managed to talk her into it - very nearly could have been Nevermore."

I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I kept drinking.

"You don't seem unnerved that she knew you preferred coffee."

I swallowed. "I'm plenty unnerved. That kid is the walking _definition_ of unnerved."

"Not a kid," said Fen, and in as soft a voice as I'd heard out of her to that point.

"Oh?"

"While in appearance she seems the smallest and the youngest - Ever is my oldest charge. She is also my most…"

"Powerful?"

Fen nodded.

"Are _any_ of them the age they appear to be? Actually children?"

"In a manner of speaking. And they all have a healthy sense of fear. Fear of what they can do, and fear of what the world could bring upon them once they leave."

I'd been taking another sip, and promptly sputtered. I coughed a bit, wiped the moisture from my chin with the back of my hand. My slightly _shaky_ hand.

"They… they're amongst… once they… they're _out there?_ " I managed, and it came out louder than I'd intended.

I was still focused on Fen telling me as much as possible, didn't want her to hold back. So I was mentally kicking myself for the stunned - and somewhat accusatory - reaction. If she believed I'd act this way to anything she told me, I didn't think it'd bode well for getting all the information I wanted. That I _needed_.

Fen frowned slightly. "I'm no warden. I do not imprison them. I educate them in the ways of the world. We are more a boarding school than anything, I suppose."

"Then why hasn't she—"

"She will leave when she is ready. Until then, she is welcome to stay. As long as she needs."

"And your teachings include making them - what, _frightened_ of people? People like me?"

Fen's frown morphed into a fierce glare. "They're young, not _morons_. They grasp the concept of being prey. They live with it."

"Prey," I scoffed. "But you're teaching them how to be, what, 'good'?"

"The fear is innate. I - and the more experienced of their peers - teach them how to manage their abilities."

"How's that going?"

"No mayhem for going on three centuries now. Not from these _kids_. Not out of _my_ house. Can your organization claim the same?"

"Can the angels?"

The glare faded and she watched me carefully for a few moments before responding. "This vitriol towards heaven… towards angels… towards _God_ , perhaps. Where does it come from, Jack? Or shall we wait for Ever to unearth it?"

Now _I_ glared, at what I interpreted to be something touching on a threat. "So in addition to transporting people against their will and what, putting them to sleep when the occasion arises, she reads minds, too? Nice."

"She has exceptional hearing."

I made myself take a deep breath, trying to exhale my frustration at the conversation's lapse into shots across each other's bows. I had no desire to talk about my personal life, not to her, not to anyone. So I changed the subject. "I want to see Burt."

Fen nodded and rose from her chair, then gestured to the door. "If you'll follow me."  
.

* * *

.

As Fen and I entered the room, I saw with a touch of relief that Burt was still sleeping, snoring to beat the band, and Ever had resumed her post nearby, reading while drinking her coffee.

Burt's boots had been placed beside the bed, coat and hat hung neatly on a row of pegs affixed to the wall, and the backpack was leaning against a small bedside table. I'd noted none of it before. I hadn't even realized he'd been put under the covers, I was so distracted by my surroundings. Once again, I reminded myself I was not in the running for a friend-of-the-year award.

On the table was his notebook, and it appeared undisturbed - not that it would have needed to be read. It had become most clear to me that nothing about what we'd been up to was a secret. Not to Fen, not to Ever, probably not to any of them.

Ever closed her book and stood when we came in, setting her mug onto the vacated chair. She met us near the bed. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she adopted an impeccable, almost militaristic, posture. I half expected her to salute.

"I was just telling Jack about your love for Mr. Poe."

"It wasn't love," Ever replied, in a slightly disgusted tone. Then she looked up at me. "I found him to have a most fascinating mind."

"You met him?" I asked, and it was answered with another one of those stiff nods before she looked to her… her teacher? Her guardian? Her _friend?_ I still wasn't sure of this household's dynamics.

"I'll thank you not to tease me - _Fen_ ," she said pointedly.

I raised my eyebrows at Fen.

"A nickname one of my former charges gave me when we took up residence here," Fen explained. "I became quite good at navigating the moors early on. Chasing after curious toddlers."

Every mention of Nephilim being outside her house, away from this carved-out mystery spot, made my stomach churn.

"FEN! Where _are_ you?!"

A boy's shout had echoed down the hallway, prompting Ever to roll her eyes.

Fen sighed. "Ozzy has entered the kitchen," she informed me. "I'll be back shortly."

As I turned from watching her leave the room, Ever had moved away and was standing right by Burt. She had a hand on his forehead. I didn't like it.

"Hey," I said, forcing my voice to keep steady.

She looked over her shoulder, but didn't remove the hand; she seemed a little sad.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

Stepping back, pivoting to face me completely, she countered my question with one of her own. "You hate me, don't you?"

"I don't _know_ you, how could I—"

"That's right. You _don't_." She glanced to Burt, then to me again, still looking sad... or concerned... perhaps even sympathetic. "Mrs. Rawlings has a boy on the way."

There it was again - that pit in my gut - and It was getting deeper with her every word.

"And _that_ son will have a son. He won't deserve what happens. I hope he'll know it."

"You see the future?" I asked. It came out in a whisper, despite my wanting to sound tough, as if she could be intimidated somehow, as if it could quell my newest worry. That sadness she'd shown, it was for Burt. The ache in my belly shot to my heart.

"I see possibilities, Jack.” She paused, gave me another once-over as she'd done in the kitchen, though this time the corners of her mouth twitched upwards which for her, I suppose, was a smile. “I see them in you, too.”

Ever suddenly shook herself out of it, right back to her expressionless norm.

“Make certain he and his wife and his son are gone from America in 1958. Best to be gone the entirety of the year."

“What?"

“You'd do well to be gone, too... should you still be there, that is."

Fen returned just then, and Ever went back to her chair, her coffee, her book, her silence.

"Shall we, Jack?" asked Fen, extending a crooked arm in my direction.

With one last glance at Ever - who paid it no mind, though I suspected it didn't go unnoticed - I looped my arm through Fen's and allowed her to lead me through the house, back to the kitchen and then out a pair of windowed doors, to the enormous wrap-around porch.

There were probably fifteen children scattered about the lawn, clusters of them talking and playing. A few were engrossed with checkers; another group - older - were perched on a blanket, playing cards; a pair of teenagers, a girl and boy, were on a bench, heads down, reading a large book that was spread across both their laps. They glanced up at the sound of the doors closing and gave us friendly waves, which Fen returned.

She'd dropped her arm, freeing mine, and I gripped the rail, glad for something other than a cup to hold onto. She watched me as I took in the green grass, the near-cloudless sky, the _peace_. I closed my eyes briefly, enjoying a little breeze as it passed over us.

"I never actually thought it was witchcraft, not… not deep down," I confessed.

"So I thought."

"Why?"

"You tell me."

"I… I don't… I didn't want to believe angels were real."

"There are demons, yet you denied angels?"

"I know it doesn't… well, _none_ of my work has made much sense, but… if angels were real, it… it meant… _could_ mean…" I trailed off, and Fen didn't try to fill the silence at first, but I was glad for it when she did.

"What happened, Jack? What made you—"

"Hate them?" I interrupted, bitterness in my tone. "Just that heaven seems to have a criteria for whose prayers get answered and whose get tossed."

"It would mean you'd been purposefully ignored."

I nodded.

"You've never told anyone this, have you?"

“Burt thinks I have family back home. I don't have anybody, just him. He'd worry himself to no end if he knew I was alone. The Mrs. is just as sweet, they'd insist I move in with them, and their apartment's so damn small, the baby'd be in the bathtub.”

I turned my head to face hers, and found what I thought was more than just understanding in those sharp eyes. So I told her the rest. Things I hadn't told Colleen. Burt. _Anyone_.

"My mother died slowly. I was a kid, never really knew what took her, and my dad never told me. I prayed like crazy, though, I remember that. And then I was around thirteen when my dad got sick. Took him four years to die. Dropped out of school for awhile to take care of him. Prayed then, too."

"He was a good man."

"How do you know?"

"Because he _raised_ a good man."

I stared at her for a few moments before responding. "You know a lot, Fen. But you don't know that."

"So this contempt isn't only reserved for the heavens, then?"

I sighed, ran a hand over my face, trying to regroup, trying not to grow frustrated. I did want to get this out, tell her, make her understand. She needed to know who I really was before she told me more. She needed to realize what I'd likely be doing the minute I got back to New York.

Besides - I’d made a deal. I tell the truth, I get the truth. So I’d have to believe in her word, much as it pained my nature.

"The Men of Letters found me when I was sitting in a jail cell, okay? First time I got caught, lifting a stupid scarf for Colleen's birthday, even though we'd broken up for the millionth time. I was seventeen years old, and I didn't know how else to survive. I scammed people. I stole everything. Food, clothing, hell - even broke into shops at night, took cash. Still don't know why they chose me."

"You were young, you had no one to look out for you. You did what you needed to. I imagine they chose you for your ingenuity."

"And they fudged my school records from when I was gone, put me through college, got me a job at a newspaper," I went on, then paused and chuckled. "I was actually a pretty good reporter."

"Then?"

"Then they called up the debt. Put me into the next batch of initiates. Colleen took me back, and the rest… it's history."

She didn't comment, didn't level platitudes at me, like how my past doesn't have to dictate my future. I appreciated it. And she seemed to appreciate my honesty.

"Turnabout is fair play. My history… I don't know if I find it as colorful, though your opinion may differ."

And Fen told me her story. She was born in the mid-sixteenth century. Her mother was raised on a horse farm of sorts, and was looked upon as a natural when it came to foaling, possessing an intuition that allowed her save the lives of even the most devastated mares, the sickliest colts. As she grew older, those skills then turned to the women of her small township, guiding them through labor, preventing the death of dozens upon dozens there, and further, to neighboring areas as her reputation grew. But it came to an end with one particular birth, the first casualty on the record.

"The woman died, following days of labor," Fen said. "I was perhaps twelve years old, but it's like it happened yesterday. The moment the baby was born, everything about her stopped. She exhaled her last breath as the baby drew his first. I cleaned and wrapped the baby while my mother went practically wild, checking and re-checking the woman, pounding on her chest, shaking her, screaming at her. Nothing."

"The woman's family?"

"She was alone. She'd approached Mother and I behind the market, beckoned us into the woods. She was very close to giving birth. Mother immediately agreed to deliver the baby - she never turned any woman away - but this one worried her, and my mother did not worry, not about her skills. It was because she recognized this woman - she'd been run out of town earlier that year, though I didn't know it. And she'd been living in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere."

"How was she surviving? If she had no family, no husband… wait, _that_ was why she was run out, wasn't it?"

Fen shrugged. "I imagine. But someone was looking after her, at first, at least. I remember thinking the cabin must've been nice once. It was filthy and run down by the time we saw it. She had nothing ready for a baby. And she was scared out of her mind."

"I don't understand what—"

"The baby was Nephilim. Mothers don't survive the birth..." Fen paused a moment, a touch of pride sneaking into her expression as she added _, "...typically_."

I glanced out over the yard, processing her words. I found myself making mental inventory of her charges again before I stopped myself and looked back. _Not colorful, my ass_ , I thought.

"So you carried on the family business - you delivered all these kids, didn't you? You were their mothers' midwife."

Fen nodded, went on with her tale. "My father had long been dead, and as there was no one to ask permission of, my mother took in the baby. Once his powers began to show themselves, we lived a nomadic life, all to try to protect him. And that, we did. I think of him as my brother to this day."

"Where is he?"

"He helped me establish my first home for these wayward souls, but left to keep us safe. I don't know where he is now. I hope he is alive, during my every waking moment. Jack, you aren't completely wrong about the angels. They believe slaughtering the Nephilim is one of their divine duties."

"And you… you can overlook that? Could you _forgive_ them for that? If it turns out they killed your brother?"

"I can understand their allegiance. I can understand their fear of being cast out. Of losing the only family they've ever known. But I can't abide their mission."

"So your solution is to, what, utilize Nephilim power? To keep all of you hidden? Are the mothers here somewhere, too?"

"No. They are returned to their lives with no memory of the experience. The angels who impregnate them tend to have a habit of running, and they are alone and frightened. And they have no concept of what their children will become."

She noticed the look on my face, and interpreted what I was thinking correctly.

"I _have_ their permission to do so. I've yet to meet a mother who considers her situation a welcome one. Most were in danger prior to their arrival. I've long suspected the heavenly host must have some way of knowing when a Nephilim is conceived, though I've not been able to determine how. And so I hide them here—-"

"I want to know right now - what is 'here'? For that matter _when_ is 'here'?" I demanded.

"Think of it as… as a patch of time. Here they grow, they age, but as slowly as they need. As for me, time moves even slower."

"And they power it? _Your_ youth, keeping _themselves_ young if they don't want to leave, keeping all this camouflaged - how do you reconcile that in your mind? You say you want to protect them but you're— you're—"

The heat of anger was beginning to wash all over me. So much so, I couldn't manage to finish my thought. Fen didn't seem angry on the surface, but every word she shot back in response was clipped.

"How else do you think this could be managed, hmm? How I could manage it on my own? Would you have expected me to try keys in doors, stare into mirrors til something other than my reflection materializes? Look for happenstance in furniture, or in warrens along rivers? Perhaps try our luck on a train, or should I have waited on a charitable fairy?"

I opened and closed my mouth a few times, still unable to call up words.

"You folks and your ideas of time. You chalk it up to magic words and drawings, resetting clocks and watches, flipping hourglasses, flicking little charms to make them spin."

"You talk about yourself like you're not human anymore!"

"I shouldn't even be _alive!_ So perhaps I'm _not!_ My time passed long ago, and… if I leave this place, I don't know what would happen. My former charges bring the mothers to me, but… the last child we welcomed was little Ozzy. Forty-two years ago. And I've known _nothing since_. I don't know if they are out there being slaughtered, if the mothers are… are…"

Fen looked away from me as tears filled her eyes, and she brought her hands down rapidly, slapping her palms against the railing.

"I need _help_. I don't know what will happen to them, the ones who aren't ready to leave. I'm not going to be able to hide who remains as the others move on. There isn't enough energy to keep this going much longer, and I won't ask them to shoulder it, to stay. There aren't many of them left. I don't know how to stay a step ahead of those who want them destroyed."

The strain in her voice and the pain on her face - I could not say what came over me. But I took a step closer, laid one of my hands atop hers, and it flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. The same words she'd said to me, ones I'd needed to hear, words I suspected _she_ hadn't heard in a long, long time.

"Tell me what can I do for you."

Fen jerked her head up and over, clearly stunned. And neither of us had a chance to speak because the teenagers who'd been on the bench had approached, now standing on the grass just below the porch, without us realizing. The boy cleared his throat and Fen gently pulled her hand from under mine as she stood up straight.

"We're sorry to—" the girl began.

"Don't apologize. Jack, these lovelies are the only set of twins we've had gracing the premises in going on... how long has it been, Artemis?"

"We were just looking at that," the girl replied, holding up the large book she and her brother had been reading. "It's been eighty-nine years, as of last month."

"Your time or my time?" I asked hesitantly.

They all laughed, but good-naturedly, and the boy answered for the group.

"Your time. Fen doesn't let us get away with not knowing what's happening beyond our borders."

"So I'm told."

He climbed the steps, extended his hand towards me. "I'm Apollo. Nice to officially meet you."

"Right, right," I replied as we shook. "You're one of the ones who helped Burt earlier. Thanks for that."

Artemis came onto the porch as well, then handed Fen the book.

"Signed off and ready to go?" Fen asked.

The twins nodded in unison.

"Go?" I repeated.

Fen allowed me to join her as she saw the twins off. Following the retrieval of two small bags, they enveloped Fen in tight hugs as we stood by the front door. Apollo helped Artemis with her coat, then they turned to face us, absolutely radiant with excitement.

"And where will your adventures begin?" asked Fen.

"France," Artemis answered immediately.

"Have you decided on your new name?"

She nodded, though her wrinkled nose seemed to indicate she was having second thoughts. "Well, _almost_. I can't choose between Marie and Cosette."

"Ah, Cosette - 'she who triumphs in war' - I like it. It suits you," said Fen.  Addressing Apollo, she asked, "And, you?"

Apollo glanced at me briefly, then looked back at her. "I had a few in mind, but now… now I'm thinking Jacques."

"A strong name. It has my approval, as well."

The twins took turns shaking my hand, gave Fen one last round of quick hugs, and walked out the door, straight into the mist - then they were gone.

"I misled you before - regardless of whether you chose to tell me the truth or not, neither you nor Burt will lose your memories," Fen said quietly, both of us continuing to gaze into the grey.

"That's… thank you."

"Will you stay?"

"Are you asking so that I won't go back and tell them? So they won't come back here and find you?"

"We won't be here if they do. It's time to move on."

"Why me?"

"You have much to give. It's being wasted in your current life. Besides… you deserve some grace."

"And you can give that to me?"

"No. Not me."

I wasn't so sure. She turned, walked back into the foyer, closed the door, then continued on down the hallway. I followed her without hesitation.

We made our way back to the porch. I watched as the children gathered up their things, preparing to come inside. Evening twilight was upon us.

"I don't have many selling points. You have much to learn, there's no way 'round it," Fen told me. "But we don't pray here. You'll like that."

She said it so seriously, it amused me. I grinned so hard my cheeks hurt. I'd forgotten what it felt like, true joy. And it prompted me to share a thought.

"When's the last time you changed?"

"I couldn't say - I'm stubborn."

I laughed. "Changed your _name_ , Fen - when was it?"

Now _she_ laughed - and while I'd only heard it a few times, I was all but certain it was going to become my favorite sound.

"Why in this _world_ do you—"

"You should consider it. I think 'Joy' might be good."

"As in, 'make a joyful noise'?"

"As in, that's what you bring," I answered, tilting my head in the direction of her approaching troupe. "To them." Then I looked her right in the eye. "What you're bringing to me."

I think she might've blushed a bit.

.

* * *

.

Ever and a few of the others made sure Burt was safely returned. When he awoke, he would find several pages in the back of his trusty notebook filled with my handwriting. I asked that he forgive me. That once everyone had given up and declared me officially dead, he'd write a good obituary for me, hold back on exaggerating my unimpressive character traits and mild accomplishments.

I told him little things, like the name of the jeweler who had Colleen's ring - said get it to her or don't, I couldn't imagine she'd care about my absence beyond the socially acceptable amount of time. His wife would likely take her a fattening condolence casserole that she'd immediately throw away. But Burt would be convincing at playing bereft for any suspicious Moles. I believed in him.

With Fen's approval, I added in Ever's warning about a danger ahead, which I felt certain he'd take to heart. I felt certain about another thing, too - that he'd be able to leave America and take up with the British brethren easily, due to the juicy bits of information he'd gift them. He should dole it out slowly, Fen advised me to note, lest the Moles drop dead of shock from getting such tips on one of their oldest cold cases.

I could just picture Burt settling into a vantage point so as to observe the space between the ninth and tenth platforms at King's Cross one early September. He'd bring several cameras, one to shoot with and two to drop by accident. I assured him he'd be in no danger as long as he stuck to his principles - that not everything and everyone beyond the Moles' understanding deserved elimination.

The kids - which I had every intent of continuing to call them, whether they liked it or not - had also brought back a few of my things from the inn, even popped over to New York and grabbed some things from my chapter room there, too, the thought of their infiltration delighting me. I didn't have much sentimentality in me, but I did want the handful of pictures I'd kept of my parents. The rest, Burt could throw out or let rot.

Amongst the random items they had inexplicably brought back - including two umbrellas, several pulp novels, and a bag of Burt's taffy - was the portable typewriter the Moles required anyone on assignment to bring along. We'd yet to use it during this last leg of our trip, but I ended up thinking it might come in handy. I wanted to tie up one last loose end before I forgot about my past for good.

Well, not _everything_. I'd still be visiting my world, be calling upon those investigative journalist skills I'd never quite had the chance to hone. I'd get back in the routine soon, now that I was no longer in the Men of Letters, no longer beholden to their way of thinking.

Now these heavenly creatures would be tracked for a different purpose. She had people to save. So I had hunting to do.  
  
.

* * *

.  
A dark corner was illuminated by a flashlight held by a tall man. He dropped into a squat, shining the beam back-and-forth, scanning for anything of interest. A few swipes at cobwebs, a tug or two on a crumbling box, a setting-aside of several old books, and his eyebrows raised. He lifted the old typewriter carefully, stood, and took long, quick strides back toward the doorway. The typewriter came to rest upon the top of a trunk within reach of the hallway's light.

He frowned - his discovery had seen better days, as had the paper wrapped around the roll - but to his surprise, while the ink was faded and no longer jet black, it seemed _newer_ , perhaps even _fresher,_ than it should've.

It was removed as gently as possible, but chunks of the edges had long crumbled away, rendering some letters lost, having only been stamped onto the roll. But there was still enough to read. Enough to make the man's eyes grow wide and prompt him to lean around the door frame, call down the hallway, ask his brother to join him.  
.

* * *

_._

___-_-_-_-_-___  
_-_-_-_-_-_956  
_-_-_om It May Concern:

_Though I am uncertain when this message might reach you, it is in poor taste to simply disappear from one's job without submitting a letter of resignation, as late in arrival as this one may be._

_Please allow me to express my thanks for all of the education and experiences that were granted to me during my time as a member of the Men of Letters. I take with me a vast amount of knowledge, which I can say is already proving to be most invaluable. You have my gratitude, as well as the undying gratitude of my new colleagues._

_It is my hope that with such intimate familiarity of your organization, I can offer as much aid and support to those souls - those whom you classify as monsters, abominations, vermin, scourge - as humanly possible. So that they might not merely survive, but thrive. They are nothing short of exceptional and I have been humbled by their grace._

_I cannot sign off with well-wishes for your organization's continued growth, so I'll simply say to you as an individual - and please do convey this to the rest of your roster, both here and abroad -  
_

_Good luck, boys._

_Regards:_  
_Ja_-_-_-_-__ __  
-_-_-_-_-__

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

As requested, who was in my mind's eye when I wrote about.....

Fen:

__

[ _This is actress Eva Green in "Penny Dreadful"_ ]

 

Burt:

[ _This is actor Nick Frost in "Mr. Sloane"_ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. -Nash


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